


Puppy Love

by modbees



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dogs, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modbees/pseuds/modbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock angled his face towards him, resting on his elbows. “But it was Christmas yester--.” His words caught in his throat and he stared open mouthed at the gift in John's arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppy Love

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something today and this is what happened.

“Good morning my love.” Sherlock blinked in the gloomy light of the bedroom and pulled his duvet up over his shoulder, shivering slightly at the cold. He decided after a few seconds that that was as good a reason as any to not get out of bed today. I mean, why should he? He'd spent all day yesterday with his parents and Mycroft and he was, in want of a better term, socially exhausted. He'd spent at least three days peeling potatoes for the Christmas dinner, although his mother assured him he was only standing at the sink for thirty minutes. They'd both fallen into bed that night, too tired to even speak before immediately dropping off to sleep. Then again, he supposed he did enjoy it. His first family Christmas with John. Well, maybe not, but he chosen to discount that one.

It was at this point in his train of thought he realised John hadn't replied. Wrapping the sheets tighter around his feet, he turned to face him, or rather, where he should have been, to be greeted with an empty space. He looked over at John's newly acquired alarm clock. An inspired gift, Sherlock thought, just what he needed. It read that is was only twenty to nine and Sherlock couldn't think of a reason he'd be up so early. John was just as tired as he was last night. What could he possibly be doing? He thought maybe he might have been cooking breakfast, but he couldn't smell anything from the kitchen which is usually what wakes him when he does indeed wake from such a gesture. He was definitely off work on Boxing Day. Had he been acting strange yesterday? Not that he noticed, and he most likely would have. He put his hand where he could usually find John this early. The bed was cold. 

Begrudgingly, he prised his body from under the duvet and swung his legs off the bed to reach his slippers before striding across the room and pulling on his blue dressing gown. The material of both his bed shirt and the dressing gown was rather thin and the cold of their room was biting. He tied it at his waist and proceeded into the kitchen.

“John, are you there?” he yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was met with silence again.

Sherlock examined the flat swiftly. He'd made breakfast, two slices of toast with butter, no, jam about two hours ago. He usually washed his dishes as soon as he'd finished using them in a, quite frankly, futile attempt to keep the flat organised, but he'd left them there today. He must have been in a hurry. His boots, hat and his warmest coat had all gone with him. Beyond that, Sherlock couldn't find a trace of where John had got to, he just hoped he'd be back soon. He sighed, exasperated and decided he was too tired to wait here for him so he went back to the bedroom and fell asleep sprawled across the entire bed. 

\----

An hour and a half later, he woke to the sound of the front door slamming shut. 

“Oh shit,” said John, turning to lock the door. 

Sherlock clambered out of bed, still yawning and walked into the living room. “John, is that you?”

“Yeah Sherlock, won't be a minute,” he replied.

“Where on Earth have you been?”

He didn't answer, but Sherlock could hear slow footsteps on the stairs. He resigned himself to the sofa, falling onto it dramatically, staring up at the ceiling. 

“You shouldn't just leave like that you know and not tell me where you were going. I was worried sick,” he said. Of course, he knew John would keep himself safe, but he wanted a bloody good explanation as to why he left him without so much as a good morning kiss. 

The footsteps stopped and he could sense him lingering in the doorway. He closed his eyes and smiled.

“I brought you a present.”

Sherlock angled his face towards him, resting on his elbows. “But it was Christmas yester--.” His words caught in his throat and he stared open mouthed at the gift in John's arms.

After a good ten seconds, John said, “Are you alright Sherlock?” and the puppy he was holding wriggled in his arms.

“John, that's a dog,” he said, finally.

“Yes. Yes it is Sherlock.”

“You got me a dog.”

“I did.”

Sherlock stood from the sofa and stepped towards John. He placed his hand on the puppy's head and gently stroked down the front of its left ear which hung beside its blinking face. Its tail whipped wildly and it opened its mouth to lick his hand enthusiastically. Sherlock was in too much shock to take any of it in. 

He glanced along the length of its disproportionately long body and managed to ask “W-what's his name?”

John sighed and smiled. “Well, she's a girl actually, and I thought you could choose what to call her. Would you like to hold her?”

John handed her to Sherlock and he held her against his chest. “She... she's a Basset Hound.”

“Yes she is.”

“You got me a Basset Hound.”

John was still smiling. “Well, I did my research and my Nan had one when I was young; he was the sweetest dog I've ever met. A few websites said that they're perfect dogs for people who live in flats. And I thought I'd go for it. Sorry it's a little late, I reckoned today would be better because we were spending Christmas with your parents.” He paused and looked down at her. “What do you think?”

Still in a state of complete disbelief, Sherlock nodded and a smile stretched across his lips from ear to ear. “She's perfect John. She's absolutely perfect. Thank you. Thank you!” He kissed John, still smiling like a child.

“I'm pleased you like her. I was a bit worried for a second there,” he said, but Sherlock was already sitting on the sofa with her perched on his knee, licking his face. “What would you like to call her?”

He looked up at John and pondered. “I don't know. I'll have to think about it.”

John slumped beside Sherlock and stroked the puppy's head. “She is cute isn't she?”

The puppy was about a foot long and half a foot tall. She was tricolour and had a symmetrical face with a white stripe down the middle to her nose which was white with tan spots. Her back was black and she had very broad paws, the front of which were braced against Sherlock's chest. Her long tail wagged frantically.

“How about Hamish?”

“We're not calling her Hamish, Sherlock,” John laughed. “Not only is it the most embarrassing name that I am associated with, she is also a girl.”

Sherlock huffed and turned and looked at his partner who was beaming at him. God, he was perfect. And he did this for him. It had been around 10 months since Sherlock had opened up about Red Beard to John. They'd spoken about the dog, how he'd lost him, what Mycroft used to say and he told John that Red Beard was one of the reasons he was afraid to fall in love with John. Of course, it was too late for that by then. Far too late.

“I love you. You know that, right?” He placed his hand over John's.

“Of course I do. And you know I love you. I mean, I must, I've just got you a dog and we both know who's going to end up walking her,” he said, pulling Sherlock by his shirt for a delicate kiss. After a few seconds, the puppy let out a high pitched bark, irritated that he was getting the attention instead of her. They separated and Sherlock put both of his hands on the puppy's ears and lifted them above her head. She panted in her excitement and the sight was adorable. 

“She really does need a name, doesn't she,” said Sherlock, thinking. “How about Bea?”

“Bea? I like it. Short for Beatrice?”

“I suppose so. Just Bea.”

That night, they got very little sleep. Every time they put Bea to bed, she whined until they got her up again, but Sherlock was more than happy to take care of her. It had been a very long time since he had had a responsibility like this and he cherished it dearly. He'd always had a better relationship with dogs than with people, except John, but he'd never dreamed of 'replacing' his childhood friend. With Bea over the following week, he realised that he wasn't replacing him at all. He was making another friend, a new friend. The incredible pain he felt when Red Beard passed was devastating, but he never, not for a second, thought that the time he spent with him wasn't worth it. He knew that he'd one day lose this dog, with whom he experienced love at first sight again, but, no matter how naughty, noisy and mischievous she was and how much it would inevitably hurt when she went, she was worth it. It was much easier to come to that conclusion because he'd learned that love was always worth it with John already.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see what Bea looks like you can look on my tumblr blog at the 'Bee the Basset' tag. I just wanted to write a fic about my puppy if I'm honest and I'd like to think, if John and Sherlock did get a dog, it would be a Basset Hound because they are the best.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
